There’s No Use Crying Over Spilled Burrito
It all started as a regular lunch trip. I was taking the kids to the movies after a morning at the bouncy house warehouse, but needed to grab some lunch before the show started.
“Pizza, dad! Can we have pizza?” came the request.
Well, sure, THEY can have pizza. But my diet would not allow it. So I plotted to grab a burrito bowl next door, then the pizza for the kids, and we’d all eat outside together before the movie started.
I grabbed my burrito bowl, all bagged up to go. I grabbed a slice of pizza, all boxed up to go. I handed the pizza to Erin to carry, and we went looking for a table.
Not two yards out the door and: Splat.
My burrito bowl had leaked through the bag, then the whole thing slid through the bottom like a foal being born.
I cleaned it up a little, then decided to forgo my own lunch to get the kids fed quickly. We started walking to a table and then: Splat. The pizza slid out of the box and onto the ground.
Erin was crushed. She started bawling, and I, who had been angry and frustrated that I’d wasted my own lunch, could feel nothing but total empathy.
Poor girl. She declared it to be the worst day ever. I declared it to be a good opportunity to show her that daddy isn’t perfect, and she shouldn’t feel like she has to be, either.
The proof is in the pudding. Or sodden mess of burrito on the ground.